Chapter 12

 

 

He had a problem, and he knew it. He couldn’t help it. He would spot a bright object or a doodad with some particular quality, and he just had to possess it. The first time he’d come home with a ladies’ brooch after a visit to his aunt’s home, he’d received a light scolding and been forced to return it. Aunt Jane called him a little klepto and never invited him back again. After that, he never showed Mom his findings again. He simply stashed them, first in an old cigar box under his bed, then in increasingly clever caches where he wouldn’t be pinpointed as the thief.

Part of the thrill was the uncertainty about getting caught. In school his locker contained more of other kids’ possessions than his own. He learned to be cagey about who was standing around when he opened the door. Every couple of weeks he would scoop his prizes into his backpack and take them home to join the collection in the back corner of the yard shed where his mother never looked. She’d somehow gotten the impression the shed was crawling with black widow spiders.

Now, he pulled a cookie tin from under his bed and sat back on the rug with legs crossed. Raising the lid, he breathed a contented sigh when he viewed the contents. The gold pocket watch was a recent find, an item he’d known he would possess the first moment the man pulled it from a pants pocket to check the time. Subtly picking pockets was a learned skill he’d picked up sometime in his late teens.

He ran his thumb over the watch case. It was carved with images of a steam locomotive and cars. Inside, a name and date had been engraved. The personal touches pleased him.

Last night he’d attended some kind of quasi religious service at that ‘temple’ next to the homeless shelter. The weirdo couple were collecting money to build houses for the poor. Boo-hoo, he thought as he listened to their spiel. If he could figure out ways to make a living without doing much work, then everybody else should be able to do it too.

Fend for yourself. It was a lesson that went back to the year he turned eight.

Just as he’d fended for himself last night when the collection plate came around. Making a show of dropping in a dollar bill, he’d quickly palmed a twenty. Even the young kid sitting next to him didn’t catch the move. He might go back tonight and bring home a little more—a guy has to pay the rent, after all.